Hysteria
by BobbleHeadJesus
Summary: If Dr. Winchester can get under dozens of petticoats to cure afflicted women, then BY GOD, he can get under Mr. Novak's... uh... Well, whatever he gets under, Castiel will definitely never be the same. AU Cas/Dean smut.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Well, I didn't want to post this before I'd finished it, but I feel extraordinarily celebratory today.

So all y'all bitches are gonna celebrate with me! Get out your fuckin' party hats! And then get in the kitchen and make me a cake.

You know what I like? As of seven months ago, _Supernatural_. Also, sexologists of the Victorian era. Those guys were RIDICULOUS and wrong waaaay more often than they were right. But they were also groundbreakers and pioneers. Good on 'em for that. Anyway, these two loves got fumbled up in my head, and a few weeks ago I barfed this story out onto my keyboard.

WARNING: The stuff you read in this story **does not** represent modern scientific theories (or my own theories) on the way human bodies and sexuality work. Do not take Dean's advice. This spawns from a time when the female sex drive was considered to be a psychological disorder, and gay men were thought to be male bodies inhabited by female souls.

* * *

><p>It is not the thin, nervous young woman who catches Dean's eye outside of his office on that cold Wednesday. She is rather pretty, and Dean would be the first to admit it. Although he would also admit that her nose is a little narrow, and her hair is a touch too red, and her neck looks like as though her head is balanced precariously atop it. Still, she has a gentle smile and enough life in her eyes to warm the cockles of any man's heart.<p>

"Ah, Dr. Winchester?" She darts forward, skirts rustling around her ankles, and pulling her shawl closer around herself. "You are the physician, aren't you?"

"Yes," he replies with a confused smile, raising a hand to tip his hat at the young woman. It is not often he is recognized in the streets, let alone by someone he has never met.

"And you… you diagnose…" Her large eyes fill with tears, and he immediately reaches for the handkerchief in his breast pocket. She accepts it and dabs at the tears, which sparkle in a rather fetching way in the fading evening light. "You cure Hysteria, don't you?"

"That's a delicate matter to be discussing on the street, Miss…"

"Mrs. Novak," she sniffles into his hankie. It is silk, and he can't help but feel a pang for its loss. "Anna Novak."

"Mrs. Novak," he repeats with a forced smile.

Dean doesn't like to have discussions with patients. The sign over his practice's door reads "Winchester and Sons" for a reason. Dean gives physicals, diagnoses, treats, and writes prescriptions. That's it. It's his brother Samuel who interacts with patients, gathering personal information and symptoms, handling legal issues, working out payment plans and – on the rare occasion it is needed – dispensing emotional counsel after their treatment.

Dean privately refers to it as Inane Verbal Ejaculate Time with Sam.

He clears his throat and says, "If you believe yourself to be suffering from the affliction, you should make an appointment during office hours. And please don't worry yourself, the discretion of my clinic is –"

"No," she interrupts loudly, and he closes his mouth. "It's… not for me. It's for my husband." She gestures to the man standing quietly behind her. He's half in the shadows, his top hat tilted forward to obscure his face.

"Your… husband?" Dean echoes her, confused.

The man removes the hat from his dark hair and holds it front of his chest, inclining his head in a nod. His eyes are a piercing blue, and his expression is so solemn that it looks as though his face had been chiseled out of stone. He says nothing, simply stares at Dean expectantly

"Yes, well, I suppose I could… have a look. Or something like that," Dean says lamely, unable to look away from the man, who is now staring back at him.

No, it is not the pretty redheaded woman with tears in her eyes and trembling lips who catches Dean's eye.

It is her silent husband.

"We've been married four months," Anna informs Dean as he ushers them into an examination room. "Before we moved to Boston, we lived in Poughkeepsie, which is where we grew up. My parents lived there their whole lives, and I just knew we needed to leave or we'd just wither away like they did. And my Castiel makes the prettiest baubles out of silver, rings and bracelets and the like, so we knew we could make it alright here. Friends were difficult to find at first because…"

Dean rubs at his temples, trying not to think about how horrible this woman is. He feels an inordinate amount of pity for the man; Castiel was it? What sort of a name is that?

He glances at the man and once more finds himself unable to tear his eyes away. The man is watching him closely, and Dean swallows. This appointment is ridiculous, and he wishes he hadn't let them in, but they seem strangely confused about Hysteria. Moreover, he has no desire to humiliate them both by asking them to return during hours when other patients could see them.

"Mrs. Novak," he intones, and finally averts his eyes from Castiel's to look at her. She stops and absently wrings her gloves in her hands. "I've asked you both inside because I wanted to explain that you've made an awkward mistake. Hysteria is a disorder that befalls women. It simply doesn't affect men."

The woman crosses her arms indignantly and twists her mouth. "Dr. Winchester, I am shocked that a learned man like yourself is so adverse to aiding an ailing patient, even if he suffers from something rare and socially embarrassing. It is thoughts like that which destroy the noble profession of medicine and medical science. Why I –"

"Alright!" he explodes, holding his hands up, and sitting in a chair. Listening to the blasted woman blather on is not something he wants to do tonight. He gestures to the examination table and another chair. "Sit down. Tell me why you think your husband is the first recorded male to suffer Hysteria."

Anna settles herself into the chair as her husband carefully lifts himself to sit on the table. She smoothes her skirts and straightens her spine.

"As I said, we've been married four months," she says. "In that time there has been…" she glances uncomfortably at the door, then at her husband, "… no consummation of the marriage. He is never aroused in bed, but becomes extraordinarily excited in inappropriate places. He becomes so worked up that he hyperventilates, and sometimes ends up going days without sleeping."

She looks anxious. Meanwhile, Castiel looks almost bored, as though he hasn't even been listening to his wife. Dean nods thoughtfully.

"Very well, Mrs. Novak, would you be so kind as to step into the waiting room? I'll need to speak to your husband alone."

She stands and pats her husband's knee gently before opening the door and going out into the waiting room.

"Castiel, was it?" Dean asks, getting to his feet and holding his hand out. When Castiel accepts it, his grip is warm, and firm, firmer than he'd expected.

"Yes." His voice nearly makes Dean jump out of his skin. It's low and gravelly.

"I want to level with you," Dean tells him. "Female hysteria has to do with a woman becoming too wound up. It's generally cured with either extreme bed rest or sexual relief provided by her husband." Castiel says nothing, watching him quietly. "It doesn't happen to men."

Dean expects t this to create some sort of embarrassment or well, really, ANY reaction from the man, but he continues to sit on the table, expressionless. So the doctor clears his throat and speaks again.

"What I'm trying to tell you is: you need to make love to your wife. It's how the human race reproduces, and it's what you are expected to do."

The silence in the room is suddenly oppressive, and Castiel swallows audibly.

"I… don't understand," he admits. Dean gives him a puzzled expression. "What she wants from me. Or what you're telling me."

Dean's jaw sets. This is not what he had in mind for his evening; the bottle of scotch his maid will have set out is calling for him to come home. "She wants you to achieve an erection with your penis and put it into her vagina," he says shortly.

"An erection?" Castiel frowns at him.

"When your penis becomes hard," Dean snaps. He does not generally work with men, and it boggles his mind that one of his own could be so dense about this sort of thing. The man must have grown up incredibly sheltered.

The uncomprehending expression turns into a look of impatience. "Obviously I can't control when that happens," Castiel tells him shortly. "She's not around when it does."

Where is Sam when Dean needs him?

"My advice is to physically manipulate yourself when she is around, in order to achieve full arousal," Dean tells him stiffly. "Or, if that is too awkward, maintain sexual thoughts."

"I…" A look somewhere between frustration and anger passes across Castiel's face. "I don't understand any of this. What do you mean manipulate myself? What sexual thoughts? Thinking about what sex will be like with her? Nothing happens when I do that."

Dean puts a hand on his lower back and presses gently into the stiff muscle. He really wants to go home. The carriage he'd seen in the street is undoubtedly gone by now, which means he'll have to walk the seven blocks home in the cold, and it's already been a long day.

"Very well. Let's presume you have Hysteria then, shall we?" he says, and moves forward to the examination table. "I prescribe genital massage for this type of situation, and since your wife is incapable, your physician will administer. Take off your trousers and drawers."

Obediently, face still somber, Castiel unbuttons his trousers and drawers, and stands, sliding them to the floor. He steps out of them and picks them up to rest them on the examination table again. When he sits back down, Dean opens a cabinet and removes a bottle of oil, and pours some into the palm of his hand.

As he approaches Castiel, the man's adam's apple bobs, and his jaw flexes. His cock is already half hard, and it twitches once when Dean reaches for it.

"Will this hurt, Doctor?" Castiel asks, voice tight.

Dean says nothing, gently smearing the oil over his genitals.

The speed of Castiel's breath increases, and Dean lifts his clean hand to press against the other man's throat, checking his pulse. Castiel's blood pounds heavily against the thin skin of his throat, against the pads of Dean's fingers, and for a few moments, as their skin touches, Dean forgets that he's supposed to count.

"Is it normal?" Castiel asks him thickly.

"What?" Dean squints at him for a moment.

"My pulse. Is it normal?"

"Yes," Dean replies, lowering his hand. It's a lie, he hasn't checked, but he can see just by looking at his patient that the man has an increased heart rate. He looks down at Castiel's cock, now jutting up between his thighs from the nest of dark hair that climbs up his belly to his ribs.

His fingers press to the tip of Castiel's penis, the head slick with pre-ejaculate. There is soft noise of surprise and the penis jumps beneath his fingers.

"I… that didn't hurt," Castiel mumbles quickly. "It…" He trails off as Dean begins to spread the oil over the thin, soft skin of his shaft.

"Just relax," Dean instructs him, "and pay attention. This is something you can learn to do on your own."

"On m…" The smaller man's voice hitches and his mouth remains open, his shoulders tensing forward. His gaze flies to Dean's face, but Dean is focused on his erection.

He grips the cock around the base and rubs the oil into the skin with his thumb. When he tightens his fist and begins slowly pulling at Castiel, the smaller man nearly leaps into the air.

One of his hands snatches at the doctor's lapel, and he gasps, jerking them tightly together.

"Relax," Dean repeats, and puts his hand over Castiel's.

"N-no, you… mmm." Castiel squeezes his eyes close and presses his mouth tightly into a thin line, shaking hard.

The pit of Dean's belly coils helplessly as he masturbates Castiel, perspiration beading along his upper lip and the nape of his neck. He wants to yank away from the hand on his lapel, to stop the fingers from stretching the fine wool.

Yet he allows Castiel to draw him closer, until there is a face pressed into the starched cotton of his shirt.

"Doctor," Castiel growls into his shirt.

"Dean," he mumbles back, not sure why he's allowing a patient to use his first name.

"Yes." Castiel mutters something incoherent after it, his shoulders shaking violently.

"There's a good man," Dean breathes, and tugs faster on Castiel's cock. He can feel the length of his own cock along his thigh now, tugging at the restraint of his silk drawers and wool trousers. This arousal is a singular event, and he tries immediately to push it as far from his mind as he can. "Come on then. You're close now, aren't you? Relax, Cas, let it happen. Good man."

Castiel doubles over and makes a choking noise, chest heaving deeply. Jism floods over Dean's fingers, and he carefully catches it, preventing it from spilling onto Castiel's legs. He begins to step away from his patient, who is panting lightly. The fingers on his lapel tighten.

"Dean," Castiel says. He lifts his face to catch Dean's eyes with his own, and they look at each other for a very, very long moment.

Those eyes are not _so_ blue now that they're only inches away, and Castiel's face isn't so round, his mouth not so pink and sweetly solemn, his nose not so gently upturned, his eyebrows not so soft and feathery, the worried line creased into his not-so-very soft skin not nearly so tenderly endearing.

_Dr. Winchester, not Dean. _

The correction nearly leaves Dean's mouth as they stare at one another. He is suddenly scared of the way he can't look away from Castiel's not-so-very beautiful face, and craves the anonymity that his professional title provides. He pats Castiel's hand gently and pulls back again.

"That was… what I'm meant to do with Anna?" Castiel asks uncertainly.

"Into her, rather than onto her," Dean says, displaying the semen on his fingers for Castiel to see. "But yes. This is semen, and it will impregnate her." For a moment, as Dean looks at his hand, and can see – in his blurry peripheral vision – Castiel sitting half naked on the table, he is dizzy.

"And I… I've done it with you instead of her," Castiel says, his voice going faint. "Here. Just now." Dean tries to focus his eyes on the other man, and sees his face with a terrified and overwhelmed expression etched into it.

"Well… it's… not so simple," Dean stammers, then trails off as the dizziness hits him again, washing over him like nausea. He stops moving, pressing his clean hand to his forehead and closing his eyes. He reminds himself it was not like sex. They are two men. He is a doctor. It was no different than when he performs a genital massage on a woman.

But if that's true, why is his damnable prick still hard?

"Are you well?" Castiel asks behind him, concern in his voice.

"It has been an extraordinarily long day," Dean replies, the excuse sounding flimsy as he tries to ignore the discomfort his member is still causing him. "It is catching up with me."

"Thank you, then," Castiel says awkwardly, and Dean opens his eyes to reach for a clean cloth to wipe his hand. "For seeing me."

"Think nothing of it," Dean dismisses the gratitude with a short gesture. "Parents ought to teach these things to their children, but sometimes extra steps must be taken to ensure procreation occurs."

He turns back to Castiel, who has slid off the table and is pulling his drawers and trousers back up. Or rather, he was, as he has stopped and has an expression of complete failure on his face.

"I… I'm afraid I'm somewhat lacking," Castiel says slowly, and begins to button his trousers. "In my education of my own body. And hers as well, I suspect."

Dean watches him. The pressure in his groin tells him to push this man away and pretend this whole thing has never happened. Yet, he finds himself blurting, "If you'd like, tomorrow is my day off, and I could offer you a short lesson over lunch. So that perhaps you can teach your own children properly."

"I don't know if I would be able to accept such a generous offer after I have embarrassed myself here," Castiel tells him with a hopeful smile.

"Castiel?" Anna's worried voice calls from the waiting room. "Dr. Winchester?"

"You haven't embarrassed yourself," Dean says, putting a hand on the doorknob. Their eyes meet. "Lunch would be my pleasure."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Sometimes we forget how to write, and why. And sometimes it takes something wonderful to remind us.

Dr. Dean Winchester would like people to know that "Dr." is his first name, and not a legal title binding him to any profession or degree achieved through scholarly means. As such, any advice he dispenses is for novelty purposes only, and it's your own damn fault if you stick that cucumber where he suggested and it becomes stuck.

* * *

><p>Dean almost spills his wine with excitement when Castiel walks into the restaurant the next day. He feels foolish; despite Castiel's promise to meet him, some pathetic part of Dean had been anxious that he would not show.<p>

"Dean," Castiel greets him. In an instant, Dean forgets that the other man has ever called him anything else. Propriety and titles are not necessary between them, a truth Dean knows with full certainty in that moment.

"Good afternoon, Castiel," Dean says with a small smile. "I trust you slept well."

"Wonderfully. I've never slept so soundly in all my life." Castiel grips his hat in his hands and turns it unconsciously, nervously.

"I'm delighted to hear that," Dean tells him, and gestures at a chair. Castiel pulls it out and sits at the table. "I took the liberty of ordering for you. The chef here is a friend."

"I appreciate that. Anna asked me to bring you a token of our thanks for your aid last night," Castiel tells him. There is a tiny smile on his lips as he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a small velvet bag. He hands it to Dean, who unties the red cord that cinches it closed.

Inside is a small silver tea spoon, the handle decorated with tiny swirls and flowers. On the back of the bowl the letters "C.N." are stamped in neat script.

"This is fine work," Dean muses, turning the spoon over in his hands. "Mrs. Novak was correct, you are quite gifted. You have my gratitude, but I mustn't accept. It's too extravagant for so insignificant a service."

"Please," Castiel says, leaning forward, and Dean finds himself looking up into Castiel's eyes for the first time since they've sat down to lunch. "I want you to have it."

They stare at each other in silence, and Dean finds himself absolutely unable to look away. The gravitational pull of Castiel's eyes is crushing and intense, and Dean loses himself in their undertow.

"If that's what you wish," Dean says faintly, not entirely sure where the words are coming from, "then it would be an honor to accept."

A waiter with grizzled grey hair clears his throat, and both men look up at him, startled. The old man pours wine into a glass for Castiel, who looks at the glass with mild distaste, but raises it to his lips and says nothing.

"Yes, well…" Dean settles back into his chair, still trying to clear his head from the heady gaze. "You've been married four months, now?" he asks lamely.

"Nearly five," Castiel replies, head bobbing. "Anna and I have… known each other quite some time, however. We were neighbors. Her family owned a general store, and mine ran the blacksmith's. Since I am the youngest and have considerable artistic talent, I apprenticed with a silversmith."

There is a long silence, as Castiel looks at Dean expectantly. The doctor exhales slowly, frowning as though he finds this information intriguing. But it has barely registered, because he is struggling to remember how to conduct a medical interview. His mind is working furiously, trying to pull the threads of his words back from where they had drifted into… into…

Dean has no blasted idea where they've gone.

"And had you tried to make love to Mrs. Novak?" Dean asks finally.

"Do you mean, the, uh…" Castiel's face reddens.

"Yes," Dean says quickly. "Sex. Make love. You haven't, then?"

"I've lain next to her in bed," Castiel offers. "Until she spoke with her mother, I didn't realize she wouldn't get pregnant simply by lying next to me."

"And you've gotten hard before, yes?" Dean asks, Castiel confirming it with a short nod. "But never experienced an orgasm."

"What is an – "

"The climax of sensation and ejaculation of semen," Dean tells him hurriedly, lowering his voice and leaning toward the silversmith.

"Yesterday was… the uh… first time," Castiel replies, squirming in his seat, spine curled into a rigid parenthesis. "Although I think I might have dreamed about it when I was younger."

"Completely natural," Dean assures him. "Now the matter of masturbation." At Castiel's confused expression, he explains, "Making yourself orgasm. Masturbating will be good practice for coupling with Mrs. Novak, but once you've learned it properly, it's best to not do it too frequently. It will drain your essence and stamina. A terrible habit to keep up."

"Do…" Castiel's throat bobs swiftly as he swallows. "Do you practice masturbation?"

Dean blinks a few times, then stutters, "Well. I mean. I… Yes. Occasionally. When the situation arises. I am as of yet unmarried, and male tension runs rather high."

"And how… _often_ would you say the, er, situation arises?" Castiel looks flushed.

Dean looks at his glass of wine, suddenly wishing he'd finished it before Castiel had arrived. The conversation is far more intimate than he'd like. At least, intimate on his own account. He's become accustomed to delving into his patient's most private issues. "I'd say four to seven times a week on average."

"So you always touch yourself, then?" Castiel asks him weakly. "When you feel the urge?"

"Well, it depends on the situation," Dean replies, frowning.

"I see. And if you were in a restaurant, in the middle of the afternoon, with a friend?"

Dean's eyes fly up to Castiel's, and they stare at one another for a long, painfully silent moment. The smaller man fidgets with his silverware and finally averts his eyes, too uncomfortable to continue staring.

"What, right this moment?" Dean demands, too startled to stop the blush from creeping across his face.

Castiel nods and shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

There is a loud rushing sound in Dean's ears, like his blood, or the ocean, and his vision narrows down to his patient's lithe frame, bowed inward. He stands and motions for Castiel to follow him. He knows he ought to explain how men ought to think of cow intestines, or maggots, or taxes, but the rushing noise drowns out the soft arguments.

* * *

><p>"Perfect opportunity to practice," Dean lies. They are standing in the linen closet, where Dean's chef friend has told them they may go to find some privacy. Bobby is an excellent cook, but knows very little of what Dean does for a living, and therefore had asked no questions when he'd been told Dean needed somewhere secluded for an emergency private consultation.<p>

Mr. Novak stares at him with uncertainty, but the way his trousers are tented proves how little he cares about the lie.

"You should… do it yourself," Dean says with a short stammer, gesturing too quickly to be anything other than eager.

"You'll tell me if I do it wrong?" Castiel asks, removing his jacket and setting it on a pile of napkins. He unbuttons his trousers and drawers, and when he fishes out his cock, Dean feels his mouth go dry.

"I think you'll know for yourself if you do it wrong," Dean assures him, without meeting his eyes. For some reason, he can't bring himself to politely avert his eyes from where Cas is awkwardly stroking himself.

"It doesn't feel as good," Castiel tells him breathlessly.

"Often the case," Dean says automatically. The sight of Castiel's erection, of him touching himself, the desperation on his face, all sends Dean's body into a fit of sensation, starting with a tingling in his spine, to a nervous twitching in his fingers, to blood throbbing in his throat, belly, and groin. He wants to say something else, knows he ought to offer advice, at least try to keep this professional.

"You're doing splendidly."

"I can't do it," Castiel growls in frustration, and stopping. "Please, I'll practice later, can't you – "

Dean startles himself by launching himself across the tiny room and wrapping his hand around Castiel's prick.

"Like this," he breathes. "Do you feel it?"

"Yes," Castiel says, and looks up at him, face now scarlet. "I feel it. Better. Yes." They watch each other, both breathing hard, and Castiel grabs Dean's shoulders after a few seconds. He looks as though he may faint, and Dean slides an arm around him.

"You really ought to practice," Dean murmurs.

"Don't want to," Castiel whispers.

"I won't always be around to do it for you," Dean says, and suddenly realizes that in all his time giving genital massages to women, none of them have ever been as physically close to him as Castiel is in this moment.

"Shh." Castiel presses his forehead into Dean's throat.

"Practice on me, if you like," Dean blurts, his fist still pumping at Castiel's cock. The smaller man's hands move so quickly to tug at his trousers and drawers that Dean cannot stop the pleased noise that escapes him.

Hot hands delve deeply along the wiry hair on his belly, a quiver of excitement rolling up his stomach to his chest, clenching the muscles tightly. The hands map out Dean's swelling shaft, and Castiel trembles violently, knocking a stack of tablecloths to the floor and desperately pressing his face further into Dean's throat.

"Like this? Am I doing it right?" Castiel breathes and hiccups when Dean's fingers clamp down briefly on the head of his dick.

Dean nods frantically, adding, "Yes, like that." His hand falters as Castiel's hands curl up around and behind his testicles. "That's… very… " Castiel moans softly against his neck and Dean forgets what he was going to say.

Sliding his hands up to wrap around Dean's prick, Castiel begins to stroke him, too roughly, until Dean manages to grunt, "Gently."

"No, harder," Castiel growls back, driving his cock up into Dean's fist.

"You blasted…" Dean gasps and then hisses when Castiel's thumb crawls a slow massage up the underside of his cock.

"Why were you already aroused?" Castiel breathes. He chokes softly when Dean's fingers tighten briefly. "When I undid your trousers. Before I even –" His voice cuts off abruptly.

Dean feels something like terror twist its way up his insides. Quickly, and accusatorily, he stammers, "Well-why-you… Why were YOU?"

"You were talking about masturbating yourself," Castiel moans softly.

A growl works its way half up Dean's throat and then strangles there, his heart beating so wildly in his chest that he can barely breathe. He holds it in, chewing fiercely down on the inside of his cheek. The thing-that-is-like-terror turns dark, and begins to throb at the back of his mind, threatening to seep forward.

"Do you kiss Mrs. Novak?" The words come out garbled and strained, but Castiel deciphers them quickly.

"Sometimes," he breathes.

"You should…" The words are coming from somewhere Dean cannot stopper with manly reticence. Panic clenches the muscles in his belly, and he grips Castiel's rigid cock harder. "…Perhaps show me. Might need correcting."

He bows his head and meets Castiel's eyes. They are unfocused and glazed with arousal, and he squints in confusion for a moment. "You want me to…"

"Kiss me, Cas," Dean hisses, and Castiel tries to speak and gasp in one breath as he ejaculates onto Dean's shirt. He makes a soft, hoarse sobbing noise, and his grip on Dean goes slack. Dean cannot think as grief rips through him for stumbling on the path to his own release, but his hand continues to rub Castiel through the soft mewling and shuddering.

After a moment, Castiel shifts, and dry, slack lips press to Dean's jaw, trailing up to find his mouth by sense of touch alone.

Dean bends down into the kiss that Castiel presses to his mouth. For a moment, neither man moves, every inch of their bodies focused in on where they have joined together. Dean cannot move, as though Castiel's mouth has developed a gravitational pull; even his heart is straining up toward their mouths.

Castiel's teeth tug at Dean's lower lip briefly, and Dean's head suddenly feels hot and heavy.

"Oh fucking touch me, Cas," Dean gasps deeply against Cas's cheek, and the thin hand thrusts into action.

They struggle together as Dean seals their mouths together again, and Castiel squeezes the hand on Dean's sac lightly. It doesn't hurt, but it churns Dean's stomach, and he groans roughly, suddenly aware of how much he'd wanted this to happen, and how afraid he is now that it is.

"Please please," Castiel whispers against his face. "I want you to, please." Dean begins to quake, and bites on his own lip before catching Castiel's and biting down on it instead. He starts to grab Castiel's hand, to speed it up, but the other man shakes him off, and gasps against his mouth, "I can do it. I can do it, Dean. Let me do it to you."

Dean whimpers now; he can feel the tension mounting inside him. Castiel's words are so simplistic, so naïve, so crude, and so terribly, terribly effective. They bring Dean so close to completion that he can almost taste it.

"Let me do it to you," Castiel repeats, kissing him again, tongue slicking swiftly across Dean's teeth and gums.

It is not completion that Dean can taste. It is salt, and wine, and teeth. It is Castiel.

The orgasm seizes Dean so intensely that he loses his tightly-gripped control and cries aloud, squeezing his eyes shut. He crushes Castiel to him tightly, so that the smaller man moans a soft protest, but does not push away.

Then they're kissing again, Dean's tongue rubbing desperate and pleased over Castiel's. There are warm hands on his face, in his hair, crunching the starch in his collar, sliding back down to his softening penis, making him shudder and tug his hips away.

"Not after," he murmurs to Castiel. He brushes his palm over Castiel's messy groin, making him shiver. "See? Too sensitive."

"Was that alright?" Castiel whispers. "Did I do it right? Did you like it?"

"I liked it," Dean tells him, kissing him again. "You're marvelous at it."

"Really?" Castiel asks, hands inside of Dean's shirt, touching the skin of his stomach and ribs. He bends his face down to look at Dean's body.

"You're marvelous," Dean says, watching his patient explore his chest with long pale fingers. "Marvelous."


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Fuck the police! Fuck writing seminars! Fuck that shirtless hot guy across the street washing his car!

Ooo yeah fuck him. You heard me, guy in fedora on a Vespa. I said fuck him. All night. Get on dat ass. DO IT TO IT.

Wait, where was I? Oh right. I never said this was going to often frequently, but I appreciate anyone who feels like reading my super slow updates (or favorites it, or leaves a comment, or tolerates reading through the entire chapter). But if it's any comfort, it's not like there's much plot for y'all to forget.

Today's update is brought to you by the letter MY GIRLFRIEND, the number IS FUCKING AWESOME, and the color AND IF ANYONE WHO TELLS HER OTHERWISE IS A COCKSUCKER.

Now, go forth, enjoy Dean being a terrible doctor, and Cas being anxious, forget your Season Seven woes, and try to ignore the typos and grammatical errors.

* * *

><p>Anna perches on the bed next to her husband, a new nightgown with white lace around the collar in her hands. He is already in his nightclothes, stretched out under the covers and watching her finger the lace nervously.<p>

"If I go change in another room," she says finally, not looking up from the nightgown, "would you be ready to… act as a husband by the time I return?"

Castiel's feet twist in the sheets behind her, and he mumbles his assent.

Glancing up at him, she nods and then swiftly leans forward, knocking their mouths together so hard that their teeth nearly clash together. She jumps to her feet and scurries out of the room.

Castiel looks up at the ceiling over the bed and moves one hand under the blankets. He touches his flaccid penis, and remembers how good it felt to have an orgasm. Anna could do that for him, like Dean did. He strokes himself, remembering how the doctor had rushed toward him in the closet, and held him so tightly in so many ways.

His eyes flutter for a moment, and his mouth goes lax as he remembers, member swelling against his fingers.

The door opens and Anna shuffles inside, closing it softly behind her. She pauses to blow out the candle, and then crosses to the bed, climbing under the blankets and shifting to the center of the bed. Castiel knows she'll wait for him to meet her there.

He drops his hand and rolls to face her, so that their noses touch. She kisses him, and the touch against his lips makes his penis grow longer, stiffer. His tongue thrusts into her mouth, and she gasps softly, pressing her small form against his.

"Oh, Castiel," she whispers, and he pauses. Her soft hand is quick to move between them, searching his nightclothes for his erection. When she finds it, she rubs it gently with the palm of her hand once, before wrapping her fingers around it. She rucks his nightclothes up around his hips and explores his cock with gentle, curious fingers.

He remembers Dean's firm, confident touch.

"Husband, let me be your wife," she murmurs, and strokes him once so effectively that his entire body shivers. His penis begins to go soft in her hands

"No, no," Castiel gasps and yanks out of her hands. She moves after him, and even in the dark he can see the concern and embarrassment on her face.

"Did I hurt you?" she asks, touching his shoulder. He jerks away from her again. "Please, Castiel, please don't. I'm sorry. I can learn to do it right."

His entire body is shaking, his hands trembling so hard that he can barely pull his nightclothes back down. "No," he mumbles. "No, no, no. It's just not right."

"Please," she begs again, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Please don't. Don't send me home. I love you. Tell me what to do. I can do it, just tell me." Her voice warbles perilously and she reaches out to tug at his sleeve.

He steps out of her reach as though she has burned him, and clutches at himself. He wants to tell her to calm down, that she's only making it worse for him, and it will take time. Instead, he runs out of the room to the guest bedroom, where he slams the door shut and crawls into the empty bed.

But the trembling does not stop. He feels sick inside, as though he has committed a horrible crime. For a moment, he wishes the doctor was there with him. He would know how to handle this situation. He could fix Castiel and this horrible marriage.

Castiel falls asleep with heavy, aching eyes, clutching the blankets to his chest.

* * *

><p>Dean chases a pea around his plate with his fork as he listens to Samuel drone about profit margins and the rising cost of laudanum. He doesn't care about these things.<p>

Although, since Castiel has come in to see him, Dean finds himself caring very little about anything else, from the fine scotch in his liquor cabinet, to the beautiful women who visit the Winchester practice. Not even the thought of Dean's favorite activity, monthly hunts with Samuel for the white-tailed deer that plague the farms surrounding the city, has swayed his attention.

"Dean." Sam's voice is loud, and irritated. Dean looks up from the pea to see his brother's face twisted like a petulant child's.

"Sam," Dean replies, putting his fork down. "I think I should retire for the evening."

"Were you listening to me?" Samuel demands. If his hair were plaited, Dean would have sworn up and down that his brother had transformed into a ten year-old little girl.

"No," Dean tells him, and takes a sip from his glass of wine. "Not even a little."

"I got a letter from Father this morning."

Dean stops drinking, but leaves the cup at his lips for a moment before pulling it away a few inches to stare at the dark red ripples of the wine. The time it would take a letter to reach them from California, John could have already died, or moved again, or started another family.

"… and you know I respect your mail, but I want to know where he is too, and the last time he wrote, you ignored the letter for two months."

"It's fine," Dean says distractedly, waving a hand. He glances up at Samuel, waiting to hear what was in the letter.

His brother obviously interprets the look correctly, because his face pinches and he mutters, "If you'd just read it for yourself, we could…" He stops and huffs in irritation, then straightens up. "He's asking for money again. His provisions are running out, and a group of ex-soldiers are trying to scare him off his land."

"Are we sending it to him?" Dean asks blandly, slumping in his chair and dropping his cup of wine to the table. He would rather be anywhere else right now.

Samuel looks at him helplessly for a moment. "I don't know. You know what I think about it already. But if you want to send him money, I won't try to stop you."

"He's your father too," Dean says sharply, then regrets it when Samuel cringes.

"He's my father within the limits of New England, and not wasting the money we earned on some fool dream," Samuel mutters under his breath.

Dean brings a hand to his face and rubs at his temple, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "And if they bury him in some field because we didn't help him, then he won't be anything to anyone."

Samuel says nothing. Getting to his feet, Dean drops his napkin on the peas. They no longer look appetizing, and he feels like giving up. He's tired of this argument with Sam, but even before their father had left, he'd been tired of every other argument.

"I'll send him fifty dollars in the morning." His brother's soft voice reaches him as he steps out of the dining room. Dean nods his thanks, and begins to climb the stairs to his bedroom.

When he gets to the landing, at the window that looks out across the river, he stops. There are snow flurries falling, melting as they touch the cobblestone outside. He's not sure why it happens, but suddenly Castiel is back in his mind.

The shock of what had happened in the restaurant has not faded. The desire had surprised Dean, but the fact that he'd acted upon those desires was absolutely bizarre.

He wonders if the urges of his heart are signs of a weakness, of the loss of his mind's virility. Has the stress of losing his father robbed him of his ability to make good decisions? Has Sam transferring his dissatisfaction from their only parent onto Dean broken his spirit? Has running the clinic without any other medical aid finally led him down a Godless heathen path to Hell?

Dean sighs wearily and decides he does not care. He looks away from the falling snow and resumes climbing the stairs to his bedroom. Once he is safely ensconced inside, in dressing gown and cap, he finds his day's mail on a tray by his bed. There is a packet of papers, a newsletter from some nonsensical doctor who'd cornered him at a conference, and begged until Dean had agreed to give him his address to be sent the man's scientific writings. He'd called himself a sexologist, or something peculiar like that.

The newsletter is always odd, but usually interesting.

Tonight, as Dean tucks himself into bed, he unseals the packet and begins to read. His mouth falls open and an embarrassed flush covers his face. He can't look away from the tiny print, and finds himself reading at an ungodly pace.

Sexology, indeed.

* * *

><p>Castiel stands across the street from the clinic on nervous legs, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other. His breath comes out in short small puffs of steam in the cold air, chest so tight that he wonders how he's breathing at all. In the only window stands an extraordinarily tall man with mousy brown hair, who glances at him, and then at something inside the clinic.<p>

Reminding himself that he must go inside and speak to Dr. Winchester, Castiel chews on the inside of his cheek and worries at the ripped seam of his glove. He paces once, twice, three times past the lamppost, before finally stepping out into the road, and darting across the street in front of a carriage. The driver shouts at him, but Castiel ignores him, stepping up to the clinic door and going inside.

The tall man looks up at him, alarm on his face. "You were nearly mown down," he says, astonished, looking out the window, where he believes Castiel to have nearly lost his life, then back up at the man himself.

"I move too quickly for that," Castiel replies.

The man takes this as some kind of assurance, and nods slowly. "I'm Samuel Winchester. Are you here to pick up your wife?"

"No." Castiel removes his gloves, careful not to snag the loose thread.

"Then, can I help you schedule an appointment for her?" Samuel smiles pleasantly at him. The smile is identical to Dean's, and Castiel wonders if they are brothers.

"No."

The smile falters for a moment, and a confused look crosses Samuel's face. "Then… how can I help you, Mister…?"

"Novak," Castiel tells him, unraveling the scarf from around his neck. "I'm here to have an emergency consultation with Dr. Winchester."

Utter bewilderment is all that's left on Samuel's face, and he looks uncertainly at a door with Dean's name on it. "I…"

"Is he with a patient?" Castiel asks.

"No, but –"

"Thank you," Castiel says, and moves to the door. It opens, and Dean steps out, a file in hand.

It immediately falls to the floor and Dean's face flushes. His eyes fly to Samuel, and then back to Castiel.

"Dean, I –" Samuel starts and then gives the doctor a confused look.

"Uh, Castiel," Dean says, clearing his throat. "You're… here for…"

Castiel looks at Sam expectantly.

There is a pause before Sam says slowly, "An… emergency consultation?"

Dean stoops to gather the scatter file papers, then waves Castiel inside, and nods to Samuel. "Shut down the office, would you?"

"What?" Samuel asks, confused.

"Go take an early lunch, lock the door behind you, and I'll handle this," Dean snaps. "For heaven's sake, just go."

He guides Castiel inside with one hand, and shuts the office door behind them with the other. As he walks around his large oak desk, Castiel looks around the office. There are diplomas on the wall behind the desk, from Harvard and Harvard Medical School, and a single painting of a large black stallion to his right. Oak shelves that match the desk line the walls, filled with books and anatomical models. There is a cabinet behind Dean's desk filled with glass bottles of all shapes and sizes, except for the lowest shelf, which houses a new, highly polished shotgun. Castiel can hear Samuel stand up and move around in the outer office.

"So, Castiel," Dean says slowly, sitting and gesturing to a chair. "Three days and you're already back. I take it things did not go well with Anna?"

Castiel unbuttons his coat and sets his things on the back of the chair before sitting down. "I did what you told me," he tells Dean. "I did not touch myself after we had lunch. Anna and I made plans to consummate our marriage last night. I sent Anna from the room to change, and I aroused myself. She returned, lay in the bed with me, and I thought about how good it had felt to achieve an orgasm in the restaurant with you. It was working. She kissed me, and then she touched my penis."

There is silence as Dean rubs his forehead. "And then…?" He trails off, waiting for Castiel to work up the nerve to speak.

"And then I panicked," Castiel says finally. There is a modicum of shame that runs through him, and he hunches over, feeling like perhaps it will staunch the unpleasant feeling. "When she touched me. It was as though her fingers were razors."

"Did you maintain your erection?" Dean asks him, lowering his hands. Castiel can feel those pale eyes on him, and he wants to curl in on himself in shame.

"No, I was scared. It went soft." He can hear the defensiveness in his own voice, and adds, "I ran out of the room. She cried all night. I could hear her through the walls."

The doctor sucks on his lower lip briefly, then licks the upper, and clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is slightly deeper. "Well, then Castiel, I think we should try some training. Some exercises."

"Exercises?" Castiel echoes.

"Some things you can practice on your own, or with another, to maintain an erection." He gets to his feet, and goes to the cabinet. He opens it and pulls out a vial of oil, then walks back around the desk. "As well as a way for you to practice masturbation."

Castiel swallows, heavy, nervous, and nods. _Masturbation_. The word, still so new and cumbersome, crude and bluntly spoken, but now so loaded with memories of wondrous sensations, is enough to make the blood begin flooding to his cock.

"Stand up and pull your trousers and drawers down," Dean orders, opening the vial. "Bend forward and put your hands on the desk."

Getting to his feet, the silversmith does as he is told, letting his clothing pool around his ankles, shirt hanging low around his hips, and palms flat on the cool mahogany. The doctor closes in behind him, so that Castiel can feel hot breath on skin behind his ear.

"Move your feet farther apart."

Castiel does so, and a hand reaches around the front of his body, closing on his slowly swelling prick. The slickness of the oil on Dean's fingers makes Castiel shiver and rise up on his toes for a few seconds.

"Very good," Dean says softly in his ear. "Holding still when you're being touched so intimately is important, Castiel."

Unable to move his thick tongue, Castiel chokes out a soft noise. The hand is gliding over his member smoothly, and he risks a glance down. The sight of Dean's hand pumping him floods him with the memory of the first time he'd seen a train engine. He'd only been a child, dumb struck with terror at the iron monster, deafeningly loud, white steam billowing around his head, eye-level with the grinding pistons and rods.

He makes a pathetic noise and curls his hips forward, trying to get closer to the doctor's warm palm.

"You may feel some discomfort at first." The doctor's growls rumbles deep in Castiel's bones, his hot breath rolling down Castiel's neck in humid clouds, and the smaller man shivers involuntarily, unable to imagine Dean as anything other than a relentless steam engine now. "Do your best to stay aroused."

Two fingers, wet and slimy, slip into the crevice of Castiel's ass before finding his hole and pressing lightly against it. It feels like a gentle massage, and Castiel cannot help the soft moan he lets out. One finger pushes into him for a second, and it is uncomfortable, tight and unpleasant. The fingers circle his anus again and again, occasionally sliding up the stretch of skin behind his testicles, rubbing up into him gently, and Cas's back involuntarily curls at every stroke.

"Excellent," Dean breathes, his body now tightly pressed to Castiel's, hands still moving fluidly beneath his patient.

Castiel wants to demand how the doctor is able to keep up both motions, while Castiel himself can barely stand for how violently his knees are trembling. But his mouth isn't working. A strangled noise comes out of him, and Dean's lips are wet and shaking on the skin behind his ear.

"You're doing so well, Cas." Dean's voice is soft, and panting. "So very, very well." One of his fingers slips into Castiel again, and this time he can feel the muscles of his anus fluttering around it, so much less uncomfortable. "Can you feel that? Your body is ready."

The digit pushes further in, until Castiel can feel Dean's other fingers pressed against his body. For a moment the idea of Dean behind inside him is overwhelming; and the finger in his body wiggles. It does not hurt, but Castiel still cringes, concentration broken and wondering how this will help his Hysteria. The finger finds something firm to press against inside of him, and begins to rub against it.

It feels odd, tickling, and Castiel suddenly has to urinate.

"Stop," Castiel gasps, finally finding his tongue. "I… I need to relieve myself."

"No you don't," Dean says hotly against his throat. "Just wait for a moment. It will get better, I promise."

The finger pulls out, and slowly pushes back in, joined by a second. Castiel whines softly, shifting on his feet, until the hand on his erection stops pumping him and moves to his hip, to hold him still.

"Keep waiting," Dean says softly. "Remember to not move."

The intrusion feels so huge, so wide, more than Castiel can handle.

"Dean, what is the purpose of this?" Castiel whispers, closing his eyes and trying to not pull away from the thickness of the slick fingers.

"Touch your penis," Dean instructs him. Castiel moves one hand to his prick and strokes it lightly. "Again, harder." Obediently, Castiel grips himself tighter and strokes again.

The fingers inside him find the knot again, and begin to massage it. The urge to urinate is back, but the tickling warmth returns stronger as well, and Castiel whines softly, moving his hand faster on his erection.

Fluid is pouring from the tip of his penis thickly now, coating his hand, but not the semen he associates with orgasm. The fingers inside of him feel so good now that he can barely stand it, and holding still is no longer an option.

He bucks his hips back toward Dean, trying to get more of the intense pressure, his body shuddering with excitement.

Dean makes a noise of pure want, and Castiel can feel the doctor begin to rock his hips against Castiel's thigh. The thick length of his own penis presses against Castiel, and he opens his eyes. On the wall behind the doctor's desk, now at eye level with Castiel, is the diploma from Harvard Medical School.

No. Wait a moment. Castiel squints.

_Harvelle_ Medical School. Harvelle?

"That's your prostate gland I'm manipulating," Dean whispers in his ear, and Cas forgets the diploma, closing his eyes again and stiffening his throat to keep from moaning. "I've read that sexual inverts use it to lie with one another, as a man would lie with his wife."

Castiel cannot hold the moan in any longer, and it comes out high and reedy as his body is wrenched into an orgasm. Waves of pleasure roll through him, and he can feel his body clamping down tightly on Dean's fingers, the gland inside him throbbing in time with his prick. He can feel his seed splashing wetly on his feet, on his legs, can hear it on the desk, warm on the palm of his hand.

"Perfect, Cas, so perfect," Dean gasps against Castiel's skin. "So marvelous. So perfect. Your body…" He thrusts his clothed erection against Castiel's hip again and Cas lets out a broken guttural sound. "Your grace…"

"Please," Castiel begs, cringing when Dean's fingers move slightly against his tender insides. "Please no more."

Slowly, carefully, Dean removes his fingers, holding Castiel tightly around his chest when the silversmith cringes.

When his fingers are fully removed, he tries to gather himself, and releases Cas, intending to take a step away. Instead, Castiel slowly sinks to his knees on the floor, and Dean tries to grab at him to prevent his descent. His patient pivots and leans his body against Dean's legs, pressing his face to the crease of his hip.

"Castiel," Dean gasps, as the nose of the other man brushes against his erection. "Are you well? Do you feel dizzy, or nauseous?"

All Castiel can manage is a soft dry sob, and whimpering, "Why do you make me feel this way?"

"Ah, Cas!" Dean puts his unsoiled hand on Castiel's head, which has begun to nuzzle against his cock. But when he doesn't pull Castiel away, Castiel presses a kiss to the firm length of flesh and Dean breathes, "No, you mustn't."

Castiel cannot stop himself from parting his lips and mouthing the erection he can feel through the trousers. He licks a long stripe up the fabric, then mouthing again near the head of Dean's penis.

Dean is whispering Castiel's new nickname over and over again, begging, pleading for him to… to… to what? Castiel can't tell. Stop? Keep going?

He wants, so fiercely, to keep going. The strength of the emotion takes him aback. He sucks sharply on the fabric in his mouth, and the hand on his head presses him tighter to the body in front of him.

And then, before Castiel can consider the consequences of these actions, Dean jerks his hips forward into Castiel's face and grunts. His body trembles, erection spasmodically twitching beneath warm, wet lips, and then stills.

They hold still for a long time, both panting softly. Fingers sift through Castiel's hair, making him pull away slightly, to tilt his head back and look up at the doctor. After another moment, Dean's eyes open with trepidation, and he looks down at the silversmith. They stare at one another.

Castiel swallows thickly, and realizes with a sinking pit in his stomach, that his life has become incomprehensibly more complicated.


End file.
